


In bocca al lupo

by RussianWitch



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Dubious Morality, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:15:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26067841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: Jim Gordon playing dangerous games.
Relationships: Carmine Falcone/Jim Gordon
Comments: 9
Kudos: 7





	In bocca al lupo

**Author's Note:**

> More or less written on a bet.  
> Not beta'd

“Come here, James,” Falcone says quietly and Jim finds himself on the precipice.

He can say no, make his excuses, and walk away, forget the whole stupid idea and do the best he can inside the precinct.

Falcone watches him patiently, like a snake, sprawled in his chair like an emperor on his throne sure he’ll be obeyed. 

The sound of blood rushing through his veins deafening him Jim rolls onto his knees, swallowing a victorious smile when he sees interest flare in Falcone’s eyes.

“That was _not_ what I meant,” Falcone objects.

He shifts in his seat and Jim allows the smile to show as he crawls forward into the new space between Falcone’s spread legs. 

He trails his fingers up the shiny shoes, squeezes silk sock-clad ankles, runs his hands over powerful calves to rest his hands on Falcone’s knees. 

“That’s not much of an objection,” Jim tells the mob boss.

“You are an attractive man,” Falcone says leaning down to cup Jim’s cheek the way he did in the slaughterhouse.

His hand is big and soft, nails manicured, Jim leans into it closing his eyes and baring his throat in invitation.

“But one has to wonder, why the generous offer?” Falcone’s hand slides down, his fingers clamping down on Jim’s throat, cutting off his air. “What do you hope to gain, detective?”

“Laid, at the moment,” Jim says with the little air he has left trying to look innocent as best he can. 

Falcone’s grunt conveys his skepticism but his grip eases turning into more or a caress.

As soon as Falcone’s thumb comes in range, Jim sucks it into his mouth massaging the pad with his tongue. Falcone pushes his thumb deeper into Jim’s mouth, fucks it in and out experimentally gasping softly as Jim digs his fingers into his thighs leaning closer.

“Carry on then,” Falcone says, removing his thumb from Jim’s mouth to sit back, waving his hand in a wordless invitation for Jim to proceed. 

Jim isn’t sure he’s believed, but as long as Falcone isn’t refusing outright—Jim can work with that. Sliding his hands up the older man’s thighs, he licks his lips and lets lust show on his face. Power is attractive, Jim has always been attracted to it like a moth to the flame. 

The expensive leather belt is easily undone, the buttons of Falcone’s fly not so much.

“If that was a zipper, I could have opened it with my teeth,” Jim tells the older man carefully fiddling with the buttons.

“No need for theatrics,” Falcone smiles running a hand through Jim’s hair as he leans in noosing at the silk of Falcone’s boxers.

The man is half-hard already, hot through the silk, chubbing right up as Jim mouths at him through the silk finding the head by feel.

Falcone gasps above him, the sound going right to Jim’s dick.

Falcone may own Gotham, but Jim owns him, if only as long as he has Falcone’s dick in his mouth.

Jim doesn’t mind, he’ll take what he can get.

Licking at the silk, he finds the slit in the boxers moaning at the first taste of skin.

He’d forgotten how much he likes sucking dick, forgot it deliberately when he met Barbara.

Glancing up, Jim smiles at the way Falcone’s knuckles have turned white on the chair’s arms, and his mouth has turned tight.

“I don’t like games, James,” the mobster pants.

“Understood,” Jim laughs, wrapping his lips around the still-growing dick.

His jaw is going to hurt later, Jim finds he’s looking forward to it and Bullock’s disgusted looks. The weight on his tongue, the warning itch when he takes Falcone a little deeper _he’s missed it_.

Above him, the mob boss groans, the muscles of his legs tightening and releasing as Jim sucks him.

The room is silent but for the wet noises of Jim’s mouth and the gentle snap and crackle of the wood burning in the fireplace and the creaking of his knees grinding into the overly ornate wooden floor. He wants more noise, wants to _hear_ Falcone lose control. 

Pulling back, Jim takes a deep breath and takes Falcone deeper, swallowing him down until his nose is buried in the soft grey hair. The head of Falcone’s dick plugs up his throat cutting off his air. 

The need for breath almost has him pulling back, gag reflex warning him that what he’s doing is stupid, instinct kicking in that Jim cheerfully ignores. 

He swallows.

Then swallows again and Falcone’s hand is in his hair, lightning-fast and tight enough to bring tears to Jim’s eyes. 

He forces his eyes open, having closed them sometime before, looks up at Falcone who’s turning red, his teeth bared in a snarl as he glares down.

“Cucciolo!” Falcone pants curling forward to clamp his other hand on the back of Jim’s neck.

Black spots dancing before his eyes obscuring Falcone’s red face Jim keeps swallowing as he grows dizzy. He feels Falcone’s balls draw up against his chin twitching in their sack as the mobster hisses.

Air floods his lungs and bitter, viscous fluid coats his tongue, Jim digs his fingers into thick thighs trying not to slump. It feels like the only reason he’s still upright and not passed out on the floor is Falcone’s hand on the back of his neck. 

He moans around the softening flesh in his mouth, giving it languish sucks until he hears Falcone’s breath even out and the older man sinks back into the chair letting Jim go. 

Free, Jim becomes aware of his own body’s demands: his dick strains against too-tight pants, his balls aching his fingers digging into Falcone’s thighs.

Forcing his hands to unclench takes some effort, Jim wonders if Falcone is going to have bruises by the next day.

Once he’s managed, Jim is cupping himself in less than half a breath, squeezing his neglected dick through the fabric.

“No!” Falcone snaps raising a leg to kick at Jim’s knuckles, “show me!” 

Jim is too distracted to understand the order at once, but the toe of Falcone’s shoe dragging over his crotch clears things up.

With hands trembling with lust, Jim undoes his belt and trousers, sighing with relief when pressure on his dick eases. The relief is just enough for Jim to scrape a few brain cells together and remember _why he’s there in the first place_.

Falcone is waiting with an air of expectation.

Taking a deep breath, Jim sits back on his heels spreading his legs to give Falcone a clear view, tugs at the bottom of his shirt until it’s rucked up enough that his abdomen is exposed, pushes down his pants giving Falcone a clear view of his dick, dusky and wet curving up towards Falcone, pulls his balls out hot and feeling like they are ready to burst in his hand. 

Looking up at the mob boss, he pulls on his sack rolling his tight balls, starving off release. There is something about the way Falcone looks down at him, already satisfied but still predatory, like he’s looking for tells or the truth. He takes a deep breath and squeezes hard, until it hurts, until his hand trembles and he has to suck in air to keep from making a sound.

The urgency wanes and Falcones arches a brow.

Baring his teeth at him Jim licks his palm and closes it around his dick.

A guttural moan escapes him as he drags his hand over slick skin in a slow stroke. It’s good and not quite right, _not enough_ , not near enough as keyed up as he is. Tightening his grip feels better, his nerves sending alarms to his brain, a slow throb of blood trapped in the head, that feels better.

Pulling on his sack again, hard enough to see spots behind his eyes and feel his nerves going haywire. His hands share, breath stalls—and it’s not enough, speeding up his strokes is not enough.

Rising on his knees Jim leans forward, slumping against Falcone’s leg.

He buries his face in the older man’s softening belly, the smell of sweat and expensive cologne filling his nose.

Falcone’s hand returns to his hair, the sharp pain of the mobster’s merciless grip making him moan out loud. 

Part of him still wants to show off, wants to lean back, and show Falcone…

“Come for me, my boy,” Falcone orders, shifting his leg until Jim feels the tip of his shoe pressing between his legs, digging into his perineum.

He screams into Falcone’s lap, clutching at him like a drowning man spilling himself on the horribly expensive rug on his knees for the mobster slumping into his lap with a sob.

“Well done,” Falcone says, his nails scratching through the short hair of Jim’s neck in comfort as he tries to catch his breath. 

Jim wonders if it’s enough.


End file.
